


Broken Bells and Shattered Glass

by notcool



Series: Loki Short Stories [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Abstract, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Death, F/M, Fear, Gen, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Imagery, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Insanity, Kind Of Graphic, Other, Romance, Suicidal Thoughts, Temporary Character Death, and dead people, but the super dead ones come back, i mean blood, ish?, kind of dark if i'm being honest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-04 00:05:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17293886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notcool/pseuds/notcool
Summary: Loki's memories are blurred, pain the only constant, and Death's open arms seeming so inviting. But a voice that isn't his has it's own thoughts on Death.---Steve and a few others are sent in to take out a Hydra base, but when they arrive, a woman in bloody armor has gotten in before them. Her madness rivals Loki's own, and the heart-wrenching sight has nowhere to go but down.





	Broken Bells and Shattered Glass

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so I'm not even sure what this is but uh... here? Take it, I guess. I sat down half an hour ago and spit this out of nowhere so I'm gonna post it before my better self stops me. Anywho, I'm learning French and for some reason my sleep-deprived brain was like, "oh, let's put some in this fic!" It's not much but I do apologize if I've got words out of order or something.(I'll put translations at the end) Enjoy!

Cold.

The sensation was not a new one, but it was no more welcome now than it had been the hundreds of times previously. He wished it would leave him in peace, for once. Had not he suffered enough? Had he not yet paid the price for his crimes thrice over?

It was pointless, as it always was. No one was coming to save him. He was always having to save himself, and it was getting tiresome. Maybe, he thought, he was done. Done saving himself. Maybe it was time this painful cycle ceased…

_“No.”_

Loki jolted at the voice, but he remained alone in the darkness. He almost wanted to laugh at the part of him that was clinging to life. What did it hope to accomplish?

_“No.”_

Had that voice really come from within? Certainly, as there was no other origin to consider. The thought that someone else would even bother trying to save him was ludicrous. He wanted to laugh, but the sound was caught in his throat. Caught in the net of tears that threatened to spill should he let anything out, however small and unimportant.

_“Do not forget your promise.”_

Promise? What had it been? Did it even matter? Surely one more broken oath was nothing to the string of failures that followed his every move.

_“No.”_

That voice was rather demanding. Loki wished it would quiet, but it only seemed to be getting louder.

_“You leave so much unfinished.”_

“Don’t we all,” Loki muttered, not sure if his lips actually moved or not, but the voice was beginning to become concerning, as it most definitely seemed to be coming from the outside now.

_“Do not be foolish.”_

Loki scoffed at the idea. He was many things - a liar, a traitor, a monster - but foolish? No, that he would not accept.

_“Good.”_

Really, though, who was that?

Loki searched the darkness, but he was as alone as ever.

_“Never accept it.”_

He saw them, then.

A flash, a swath of greyish light, the glimmer of anger in vibrant eyes so much like his own. Shafts of bloodless colour stabbed through the curtain of black. Sounds. Scents. The taste of stale air and the salt of tears shed long ago. He licked his lips - they were dry and brittle to the touch.

_“No. Here, my little monster. Take my strength. Stand with me.”_

It was the strangest thing Loki had ever had told to him. He must have said as such, and a laugh like crushed bell rang out, bitter and broken, the slices of sound painful to hear.

_“There is so much more ahead.”_

Was this person as determined as everyone else to keep him from Death’s gracious embrace? Live to fight another day, it was said, but Loki was done fighting. He was done with the blood and the pain. Death called sweetly from across an impassable void, and how he longed to go to her.

_“She would not have you.”_

Loki somehow found the energy to be insulted.

_“Listen well, my dearest; I should not let her have you sent she an army to retrieve you.”_

The words were clipped, dripping in something hot and sticky, the speaker’s tongue stiff and sour, the meaning, however sweet it may have once been, now icy and more threat than beloved vow.

Loki could not find the mind to place the owner of that hardened voice, the one who called him _dearest_ in such a powerful yet terrifying tone, the one who…. What? What had they done? Where did they meet? What quiet conversations, what long and tiring travels, what battlefields had they shared?

Loki did not know.

_“Do not fear, mon petit monstre. We will survive, like we always do. You and I.”_

You and I… Thor? No, never in his life had Loki heard the word _dearest_ leave his brother’s mouth, and the very thought of it happening, and at his expense, no less, was a most wretched picture. But then… who?

The fact was simple; there was no one else.

_“You will know me again, one day.”_ The voice assured, still bitter, but somehow soothing. _“I will honor my promise, as you will one day honor your’s.”_

Loki knew of no promise. It bothered him, the not knowing bit. He didn’t like not knowing.

Shafts of bloodless light, glimpses of things he knew but for the life of him did not know why, his own feet sinking into the darkness below, making it impossible to walk.

He supposed this was just one more trial on the winding road to Death’s waiting arms.

\-------

Loki had come out of nowhere.

The Avengers - or, most of them, at least - found themselves infiltrating a Hydra base on extremely short notice, but better short notice than none at all, Steve supposed.

Tony “what are orders?” Stark had made it to the base first, and was happily blasting Hydra agents with his suit when Steve, Clint, and Natasha finally caught up in the quinjet.

“Stark, what do you think you’re doing?” Steve cried over the coms, clearly distressed that Tony wasn’t following the plan.

“Covering you, dumbass!” Tony replied, training his arm and releasing another blast of energy. “Now get inside and take out the mainframe!”

“But-!”

“No time.” Natasha rushed past Steve, gun drawn, Clint on her heels, notching an arrow. “Let’s move.”

With an annoyed growl Steve ran to catch up with them.

Inside, the trio easily swept through the panicked Hydra agents, making their way for the underground levels of the base.

But when they reached the bottom level, they realized they weren’t the first ones to get down there.

Hydra agents lay sprawled on the ground, necks broken, blood trickling from their mouths.

They exchanged looks, and Steve tapped his com. “Tony, someone else is down here. Or, has been down here.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Tony’s voice was muffled through the layers of concrete and earth, but still readable.

“It means Hydra’s got more enemies than one.” Natasha cut in. “Keep the upstairs clear. We’ll call you if we need backup.”

“Copy that.” Tony fizzed out.

Steve readjusted his shield on his arm and, with a nod to the two assassins, they moved forward as one.

The trail of bodies led down two halls and two a door labeled _Holding Cells._ Said door was probably not supposed to be standing ajar with blood smeared on the handle and the lock shattered out of its place.

“Did something break out?” Steve asked quietly.

Clint shook his head, and Natasha explained, her voice a cautious whisper. “This door was busted from the outside.” She said. “And by someone a lot stronger than any human.”

Steve swallowed, and realized they were both waiting for his signal to enter. Setting his jaw, he gave them a curt nod, and Clint stepped forward, kicking the door and swinging it the rest of the way open.

Guns and shield raised, whatever they had been expecting was far from what they saw.

A woman in blood-streaked armor was kneeling away from them, cradling in her lap a terribly tortured body, limbs angled the wrong way, skin broken and leaking red, pale skin forgotten in the wake of deep violet bruises, more than one in the mottled shape of a hand.

The woman did not even flinch at their entrance. She didn’t seem to notice them.

She rocked the body gently, propping it up a little with one arm while the other hand stroked the matted hair, he touches light and soft, every movement careful and loving.

It was only then that Steve realized he knew the broken form she held - Loki.

He couldn’t breathe. The sheer shock of seeing the terrifying alien leader of armies now a mangled corpse made him want to vomit. The sight itself was enough to upset any stomach, and knowing who that body belonged to… it was a wonder Steve didn’t double over right there.

Clint had a fist to his mouth, swallowing hard. Even Natasha stepped back a little, obviously unsettled, and that was rare for her to show.

The woman in armor remained seemingly oblivious, as if she couldn’t tell that the man she rocked and petted like a friendly cat was dead.

The trio didn’t move for a long time, just staring. It was only when Natasha moved that the other two forced themselves to recompose.

The Black Widow’s fingers twitched on her gun, but she moved forward, shoulders stiff and face unreadable as ever now.

She continued until her gun was barely a foot from the armored woman’s head. “Who are you?” She demanded coldly.

It was only then that the woman paused, her rocking of Loki’s corpse stilling, the hand stroking his hair frozen in the blood-soaked locks.

Silence.

“Who. Are. You.” Natasha gritted out.

The woman gave a little hum, and resumed rocking and petting.

Natasha stepped forward, pressing the gun the the woman’s head. “Answer.”

Another hum, this one longer, more considerate. “I have heard many tales of you, little spider.”

Clint had his bow raised, though he still stood farther back than Nat. “I suggest you start making sense real quick.”

“And you, little bird.” The woman hummed, tucking a strand of Loki’s hair behind his ear. “I have heard much of you. Of how kind you are. How loyal. How brave.”

Clint pursed his lips. “I’m flattered. Can’t say I’ve heard about you though.”

She was humming again. It was almost to a tune, but Steve couldn’t place which one. It was the thinking sort of hum, the hum one made when they were thinking of what words to use, which is why the tune made it all that more eerie.

“Simone.” She decided.

“What?” Steve asked.

“You asked who I am.” She replied smoothly. “My name is Simone.”

As if she had grown bored with the conversation, she looked back down to Loki’s bleeding face, seeming to tune them out once more.

The trio exchanged looks.

“What are you doing, Simone?” Steve tried.

No reply.

“So help me,” Natasha growled, “I would be perfectly content to shoot you right-”

“Always so careful, my love.” Simone interrupted, not appearing to have heard them at all. “Always planning things out, always so secluded. They never understood you, did they?”

Another set of looks went around.

Clint cringed a little, mouthing, “ _she’s crazy,”_ to his teammates.

Both Steve and Natasha nodded.

“You would have Death claim you, but I shall not let her have you.” Simone continued. “You promised me you would not go to her. You swore with that icy heart of yours, you did. Even you cannot break this vow.”

Steve risked stepping forward beside Nat, close enough that he could easily place a hand on the woman’s armored shoulder. “Simone? Loki cannot hear you.”

Simone tilted her head, as if considering this information. “Nonsense.” She decided. “My love hears my cries as I heard his so many years ago, as time and time again he knew I would return to him. He will return to me, as before.”

Steve bit his lip.

There was no telling when Loki had acquired a girlfriend, or how the hell she managed to surpass him in madness, but Steve wasn’t sure he was going to like what happened when it finally occurred to her that her love was dead.

A glance to Natasha and Clint told him they were on the same train of thought, their lips tight and eyes almost sympathetic for the bloody woman before them.

“Look here, Simone.” Steve said. “Why don’t you tell me about Loki.”

Simone hummed again, but her eyes refused to leave Loki’s face. “He is beautiful,” She murmured, “and he speaks so well and he holds his knives with such grace. He moves like water. He is always so confident…” she frowned, cupping his distorted cheek with her pale hand. “I do not like him like this.” Her fingers drifted across his face, tips lightly brushing over his bleeding lips. “I want to see him smile again. He does that so rarely.”

It was bitter. Horribly, painfully bitter, the words ripping like claws at Steve’s chest as he witnessed her obliviousness that the man in her arms was lifeless, no matter of who she was, of who _he_ was.

Steve had always been a man who thought more with his heart than his head, but this was just _wrong_. Whatever had happened here should never have happened. No one should be like this.

“He loves me so much,” Simone went on, a soft smile gracing her blood-splattered feature. “He loves too much, sometimes. He forgets to protect himself, thinks only of me. It is a dangerous thing, I have told him, but he never listens.”

Steve felt the words sink in with a sickening thud. The woman before him had known a Loki he never had. A Loki capable of selflessness, of love, of self-sacrifice. She knew a Loki they had never seen. A Loki they now would never see.

Simone laughed. The sound was light, broken, like a bell that perhaps had been warped a little, but was still trying to ring. She leaned forward, pressing her forehead to Loki’s.

“‘Til Death do us ‘part, you said.” She chuckled bitterly. “But I have seen Death, my love. I met her on the field of battle and forced her to her knees. I held my sword to her throat and I looked her into her eyes and do you know what I saw, my dearest?” She pulled back, cupping Loki’s face with both hands then, her eyes searching him wildly. “I saw fear. I saw her breath catch and her words fatler. I saw her mind as she realized that she could not take me. And she will not take you.”

She pressed back against him, their noses brushing, and Steve wanted out. He never wanted to see something so terrible again, but he couldn’t move. He was frozen, staring.

“Hear me, love.” Simone breathed. “I will not _let_ her take you.” She moved forward that extra breath, touching her lips to his in the slightest, feather-touch of a kiss, but with their lips met something changed.

Steve didn’t know what it was, but it was different. The air, the room, his own head - something had changed, and it was driving him mad that he couldn’t determine what.

Clint stumbled. Natasha shuddered, but held firm. Steve felt something icy run up his spine, something horrible and foreign and it took all his will power not to leap away from the awful sensation.

The next thing he knew, Loki wasn’t dead anymore - the prone, mangled corpse draped across Simone’s lap was rasping, arms flailing weakly, greedily gasping for air despite the fact that his lungs were in no shape for that to be possible.

There was that laugh again. The broken bell. The bitter chime of warped and rusted metal, the demented joy so terrible and wrong, yet somehow it fit her perfectly.

That blood-splattered face, those glistening eyes, the way she tossed her head back with the sound, as if something truly delightful had befallen her, as if the love of her life had not moments before been running cold in her embrace, as if the same man were not struggling to breathe now.

It was a haunting image. One Steve prayed to every god he knew he would never have to see again, but even in the moment, he knew it was an image that would plague his dreams for months to come.

Loki settled comfortably against the woman’s armored chest, still choking, but nuzzling into her shoulder as if without her scent he could not breathe. He clung to her with broken fingers, his body looking no more alive than it had before, the desperate pants of his breath the only thing assuring Steve he hadn't imagined it all.

Again, oh it was there again, that terrible laugh, the dented metal of that godforsaken bell, the sound ringing out so beautiful yet so cruel, a sound Steve was sure no human could produce.

She was holding him tight, her god of mischief and lies, petting his hair and rocking him once more, but speaking this time, speaking between the huffs of gruesome laughter.

“See, dearest?” She gathered him more securely against her, smiling in a way that was more hideous than joyful. “See, she could not take you if she had a thousand armies. I will not let her have you. Never, my love. Jamais, mon petit monstre. Je ne vais jamais partir tu. Jamais de la vie.”

Steve didn’t understand, but Simone’s other language sounded a lot more French than alien, and he wasn’t sure what to make of it.

Considering Natasha’s expression, Steve decided it was French after all, and that the assassin was just as surprised as he was at this fact.

“It is my turn now, love.” Simone was saying. “It is my turn to save you. My turn to show you - I care, mon monstre. I care so much.”

Loki was laughing now. It was was like walking on shattered glass, the sound a fragmented cry of dark humor. “I know you, do I not?” He asked, pulling back a little to meet Simone’s eyes.

Simone’s smile was as broad as ever. “You see what I have seen, my love. You know me better than anyone ever will.”

And they were both laughing. A sound more haunting than either had been alone.

The broken bell and the shattered glass.

Steve had no idea how to respond. How to even get his body moving, how to even _try_ and respond. There was an awful feeling in the pit of his stomach, and Clint and Natasha didn’t seem to be having any better luck.

That broken bell, that shattered glass - oh, a force to be reckoned with.

If anything was certain, it was that.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey!  
> Hope you enjoyed. Here's the French for ya:  
> Mon petit monstre: My little monster  
> Jamais, mon petit monstre. Je ne vais jamais partir tu. Jamais de la vie: Never, my little monster. I will never leave you. Never in my life.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
